


in the years

by CrazyLaughter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, Kid Fic, Love Confessions, M/M, This is my first Sherlock fic please forgive me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-15 23:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16074056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyLaughter/pseuds/CrazyLaughter
Summary: Just another Sunday morning at 221B, until a deduction changes a normal conversation at breakfast.





	in the years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohcuddleharry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohcuddleharry/gifts).



> This is the second part of your birthday gift that includes fics. (Depends on which one you saw first, really.)  
> It's my first fic in Johnlock/the Sherlock fandom. I cannot replicate Sherlock in this, because Sherlock is perfect and I'm not.  
> 

Rosie was John's daughter. She was a part of him. It was a while before she began to become a part of Sherlock. A while before she started becoming Sherlock's daughter as well.

It wasn't necessarily bothering. She reminded John of her mother with her little blonde curls, although he believed that Mary watched over their fixer-upper family of three. It wasn't just that- Rosie was like John too. She took a shining to treat sick baby pigeons that were dying by the window sills and she started rows with the children at school over reasons both important and trivial.

It would only be fair if she was a bit like Sherlock too, with how he went about in his contemporary style of raising children (read: Rosie) in a way that he thought was right. She went about with a notepad in her back pocket and a pencil behind her ear, observing and writing and sometimes humming. It would be alright if she shouted out the Greek alphabet when she was bored. She brought home worms to cut open in the kitchen sink. That's more than John ever hoped for. (Read: prayed not for)

So, when she comes up to him one day and says she has to do an experiment, he doesn't ask her about. He simply makes sure she stays safe and makes her promise not to turn the flat into a ruckus.

  
===

Sherlock was easy to fall into step with. He was around and he was there for Rosie. He was there for John. When everything was in pieces (literally), Sherlock was there to pick everything up with him. When their house felt too empty, there was a spare bedroom in the 221B that waited patiently. It was too small for the three of them, plus the ever-growing Rosie. Somehow, it became home over the last nine years.

Another armchair joined the bunch in the living room, and Sherlock still had his fits, except instead of shooting walls, he chose to blast metal music into a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. It was nothing like him, but it also explained how much he cared for Rosie.

Mycroft dropped in every month since then to scorn at them, though everybody could see right through. He called Rosie 'a barmy ankle-biter' with a smile on his face. Mrs Hudson had a spare bedroom, which was quite helpful. Lestrade dropped by with cases that peaked her interest and Molly would get her colouring books. They'd even go to visit 'Auntie Eurus' sometimes. It wasn't too bad.

It all came with Sherlock. And John could do nothing short but love it all- the havoc, the ridiculous routine, the flourish. He would be lying if he said that was an excuse because it isn't. As much as it seemed so, it wasn't easy. They were two men trying to figure out fatherhood in the practical sense, and nothing was as stressful or as crazy as that. Especially when Sherlock hadn't signed up for it, but sat by patiently during the years, helping out mostly and keeping his commentary to himself.

There were nights when the two of them would be up at three AM after Rosie had been given her bottle when they dreamt of so much sleep but couldn't even blink. It was all in the tired sighs and the furtive glances and the eerie silence of the living room. And of course, in the countless unwashed teacups sitting in absurd places.

It's definitely not an excuse, but he can't help but notice how long ago, home felt lost and family felt scarce. With Sherlock around, it felt fuller, though he would never agree and turn the point at John. When John forgot at times, he often thought nothing changed at all.

Sherlock Holmes was the man he could cry with and laugh with. It was long before he realised he was the man John could stand up to the world with.

  
===

  
The cold sharp surface of the kitchen granite digs into his back as John leans against it, waiting for the toast to pop out any minute now. He blinks owlishly at his wristwatch and suppresses a yawn that'll probably wrench at the angles of his mouth. Last night's sleep wasn't enough for him, with the pile of hospital case reports he had to peruse through. As though the sleeplessness wasn't enough, his head pounded mockingly and the kettle hadn't whistled yet. Just great.

Merely a second of dozing off while standing up, he's quickly awakened by the presence of Sherlock as he saunters into the kitchen. He rubs his eyes whilst yawning in a liberating way that John is oh-so-jealous of. His curls are in a disarray over his forehead, his night clothes rumpled and his dressing gown hanging limply on his tall frame. In all, he looks like the personification of comfort.

He finishes another yawn, smacking his lips together. When his eyes find John, they're attentive- almost glowing in the streaking sunlight. "Now," he says firmly.

John, as reflexively as he can listen to him, flips around, snatches up a plate and positions it at an approximate angle of 210 degrees to the toaster. Right then, it spits out four slices of lightly browned toast. He almost feels proud of himself. It's always the small victories.

"You're learning, John, well done," compliments Sherlock. It's hard to decipher if it's really sardonic or genuine when it's coming from a genius who's sense of humour fluctuated. "Where's Rosamund?"

"Off in her room, sleeping." He gathers the bottles of marmalade and jam and goes to place them on the table.

Sherlock hums dismissively. He brings out a cup and saucer, and tea leaves from the cupboard, plucks the simmering kettle from the stovetop before John can stop him. The water ribbons out and gurgles over his words. "You can hear where the telly is on even when it's on mute because it emits high-frequency waves. She's watching the Sunday Morning cartoons." He mixes his tea and clanks the spoon against the rim of the cup. John watches as he drinks and winces at the taste. At least, he doesn't rely on Mrs Hudson for it anymore. It's another small victory that John considers; forcing Sherlock to make his own tea until it's a routine.

"Oh," is all John says.

Sherlock's lips curl into a smirk against his cup. "You ought to know that. She's your daughter."

"Don't you start with me now," warns John, casting a crooked index finger at him, his other arm carrying a large dish of scrambled eggs. "What's got you up and about at this early in the morning?"

"Rosamund," answers Sherlock. "She slipped a note under my door yesterday night while I was titrating."

Wrinkling his eyebrows, John can't help but ask. "Why were you titrating?"

"I was trying to-"

John makes a clatter as he drops the platter of toast on to the table. "Actually, don't tell me. It isn't worth a loss of appetite."

"It isn't your fault you have a-"

"Not a word out of you," John scolds. It's too late to take it back and the parent in him is celebrating his dictatorship. "Now, sit. Put something in your mouth and don't talk."

"But-"

John glares at him. It's enough to make Sherlock abandon his saucer, drag his feet to the dining table with his tea and collapse into an already open chair.

Speak of the devil. The sound of tiny footsteps patter down from somewhere and Rosie appears before them, standing before her chair at the table. "Good morning, Dad, Sherlock."

As though it is humanly impossible, Sherlock pastes on a convincing smile, all too forced for an early morning. "'Morning, Rosamund."

"Good morning, darling," answers John, smiling as he sets down the plates. After nine years with the two of them being thick as thieves, he doesn't expect them to do any work. Rosie's head bobs until she sits in her chair across Sherlock. By the time John joins the pair of them, she's peering into her phone with utmost interest. "We've discussed this. No electronics where we eat." She doesn't grumble as she stuffs the phone into her pocket.

They sit for breakfast and make light conversation about Rosie's school- the homework, a clique who think they're too cool, grouchy teachers- and then, Sherlock and Rosie are engrossed in a conversation that involves dissection of cardiomegalies. By now, John is used to it, being a doctor and a working partner to Sherlock. It still strikes him with wonder, though, when Rosie is so interested, with her eyes wide and her head brimming with questions.

"I have a shift today from eight to one. You two will be alright, won't you?" John asks though he knows. Obviously, they'll be alright.

"Yes, of course," replies Sherlock, solemnly.

Rosie looks unsure for a second, she opens her mouth, changes her mind and begins once more. "Actually, there's something we have to talk about."

Right, so this included all of them, not just things that were going on with Rosie. This was something they all needed to talk about- as a family. From the corner of his eye, he can see Sherlock grimace at his plate. It's clear he wants to leave, but John doesn't encourage him. "Anything. What is it?"

For someone who was dubiously biting their lip a minute ago, Rosie suddenly sits up straighter, with confidence in her posture. "I told you that I was doing an experiment last week, right, Dad?"

John frowns at the direction it's taking- half with curiosity and the other with a horror of what's to come. He hums a little off key that sounds confused.

Rosie clasps her hands in her lap and nods. "I finished it. It was mainly an obser- observational study," she says, sounding older than nine years old. "The results have come. I made a duh-duction."

"Is that so," muses John. He glances at Sherlock's expressionless face as if to gesture at the strangeness that is her. "And what might that be?"

As always, Rosie does what she does. She shocks everyone. "Dad, are you love with Sherlock?"

It's lucky that John didn't have any food left in his mouth or had gotten to drink a sip of water- because he'd be sputtering before he even knew it. Leftover food gets lodged somewhere along his oesophagus. His mouth does dry and his hands freeze into fists on the tabletop. When he looks over, Sherlock's face is as passive as ever. He doesn't feel caught or exposed- he feels scandalised than anything. "Rosie..." he begins, because he can't think of anything else to say.

"I have proof, Dad. And I took help from Mrs Fibbs," she explains cheerfully as if she hadn't set off something in the calm atmosphere.

John turns his head to gape at her. "Mrs Fibbs? The desk lady at the public library?"

"I believe she's called a librarian, John," cuts in Sherlock.

Rosie nods with triumph shining in her eyes. "She told me all the things people do when they're in love."

For a second, barely a bloody second, John indulges her and then regrets it immediately. "What kind of things?" As soon as the words are out, he wants to thwack himself on the head.

At that, Rosie makes a show of reaching into her pocket and pulling out a sleek flip notepad that has been on her since as long as John could remember. "Number one," she recites in a clear voice. "They help each other out, even if it's hard. An example of this was last week- on October 27th when you had a late shift and Sherlock made me come with him to the hospital to give you take-away, even though he pretended it was my idea. Then, the next one that's been there forever. You bring Sherlock's coat back from the dry cleaners every month and let him think it's magically always proper."

John can feel heat crawling up his neck. "Rosie-" he says in a strangled voice.

"Number two," she goes on confidently. "People in love fight, and make up. This week on Monday, you got angry at Sherlock for leaving a sp-specimen in the freezer. You let him off after he made you some tea and bought groceries. He even moved the specimen to the mini fridge in his room."

Before John can ask her how she knows when he himself doesn't, Rosie barrels on.

"Three, they laugh together, no matter how hard it is. Yesterday, when you thought I was asleep, you and Sherlock talked about Aunt Harry. It made you sad and Sherlock made you remember the first time you met and you laughed and Sherlock smiled."

John should be shouting at her, but he's too shocked to do it. He's too rigid to even look up at Sherlock and see the emotions splayed out on his face.

"Number four. They come home to each other. Every night, you make sure we have tea until all three of us are back and you tuck me in and Sherlock tells me his stories. You don't have to do that, but you do. Thank you."

Finally, John manages to push out a word. "Stop," he says weakly, ineffectively. He feels himself quaking with anger and with disbelief, and also with a little realisation of how true that is. It was groundbreaking to have everything they've done to be analysed and thrown back in his face. He admits he doesn't like the feeling of being read- especially not by his daughter. If anything, it was their duty- both his and Sherlock's- to ensure Rosie's good upbringing and wellness. It didn't necessarily mean they were inclined towards each other. Although... things on the list seemed to leave Rosie out of it and were solely focused on them.

Rosie flips another page of her book. "Last but not the least, they look at each other with fondness." She looks up at John with determination on her creased brows. "When Sherlock went to feed the stray cat across the street last Tuesday, you looked through the window at him like he got you a brand new set of oil paints- which I want, by the way. You looked at him like you love him. And you smiled at him. People smile but they don't smile at each other."

There's too much damage done for John to anything in compensation, to cover up the embarrassment that he feels and the way it leaks out of his pores. At first thought, he would deny it. Somewhere deep down where he wouldn't reach, he knows that it's true- that it's true for a horribly long time. He assumes his whole life would flash in his eyes, leading up to his moment, but it doesn't. Because he knows it's true in some ways, and not in others. He knows he's accepted it a long time ago, and killed it all off when Sherlock 'died' and Mary came along.

After a minute of excruciating silence, John clears his throat. "What about Sherlock?" he asks his daughter while fleeting his gaze to the said man. Sherlock is looking down at his plate, face cast down and unreadable. "Doesn't he look?"

"He looks at you all the time. He doesn't smile much, but he does, it's at you and it's a secret," Rosie reveals judiciously. "You're blind, Dad."

"Blind?" John looks at her inquisitively. "Me?"

Rosie nods sagely. "Yes, Dad. You didn't notice for years that Sherlock was-"

Sherlock interrupts her. His tone is anything but assertive and loud- it sounds resigned and placid. "Rosamund."

"But, Sherlock-"

As usual, he has his guard up and John can't decipher anything from his body language or face. It's infuriating how he can shut down blank and build a wall away from John. "It was a secret. They're meant to be kept and if your father respects me, he won't speak of this again. If you respect me, you will not make your memories afresh and not store this somewhere where you will weaponise it."

John notices that they aren't talking to each other. They're talking through Rosie and that only makes him even more irate. The man who was solved crimes for the fun of it, the man who put his life on the line too many times to count, the man who jumped off a building to keep people safe; that man wasn't sitting at the table. Under all those defensive layers was a vulnerable man. Sherlock Holmes was a coward somewhere in a corner of himself. It was there in all the words he said. "Sherlock thinks love is a disadvantage. He thinks its a weak state of mind- a simple chemical and hormonal change," says John to his daughter, calmly, although he's seething on the inside. "Why would you say that?"

Rosie looks at Sherlock, and then back at him. "Because even though he thinks that, he took a risk with you." She sounds so much older than she is, and it clenches John's heart.

"But, why?"

"Because he knew it would be worth," Sherlock finally answers for himself. The low timbre of his voice makes John shiver. Barely a minute ago, John was thinking the man before was an utter wimp- but now he can't help but think it's so brave for him to talk. Sherlock doesn't do things like that for anyone. "Even if it meant that it wasn't reciprocated, he knew he didn't have a choice and that was alright with him because John Watson is an extraordinary man- perhaps too extraordinary."

As soon as it's out, John feels his insides sag and weigh down into the chair. A bead of sweat rolls down the nape of his neck. Though Sherlock put himself, spread himself out on the table and with his heart on a dish before him, he didn't know what to say- what to feel. He had never looked at men like that and he assumed Sherlock was a passing cloud that he didn't have to go into depth with. They couldn't do this. He couldn't do this. Their dynamic would change. Everyone would look at them differently. Everything would be different- he didn't think he would be ready for that kind of change. Or if he was ready for any kind of complication.

Suddenly it hits him, it doesn't have to be complicated. Rosie often said that adults made things hard when in reality, they looked so simple. They spent so long- so many years brushing it all under the rug. People will talk, but he'll do what he always does to shoo them away. Things with Sherlock will always be complicated, with the grotesque way he was, and the things he said and the way he went about, but if anything would be complicated, it wouldn't be their relationship. Sherlock made sure to cement his place his in life quite clearly, and never the doubts arose.

"Dad?" Rosie breaks his reverie by speaking right into his ear.

John blinks laggardly and looks up at her. "Okay," he says, and looks over at Sherlock, who still has his face to his uneaten breakfast. "Okay," he repeats.

Rosie furrows her eyebrows. "But, Dad-"

"Eat your breakfast," he says sternly. She follows.

He tries not to look at Sherlock's despondent face as he uncrosses his feet at the ankles, snakes it forward till he's reached Sherlock's bare feet that are attached to his pole-like legs, and runs his toes along the length of Sherlock's foot. The action makes Sherlock jolt in his seat.

Then, Sherlock glances up at him questioningly. He hopes his eyes say everything- after all, the man is Sherlock Holmes, he who deduces everything. They continue to peer at each other while John lets his toes wander up Sherlock's ankles. They have to talk about it later, when Rosie isn't listening. When they make sure Rosie is creeping up on them again.

At that moment stuck in time, Sherlock moves and breaks the evenness. He cracks a tiny smile, the smallest of quirks when one side of his mouth does it. For another moment, he looks at John unwavering, like he has to take all of him in. In retaliation, he curls his foot around one of John's socked feet. That's good enough- it's a confirmation that it's going to be alright. That they're going to take the road not taken, and enjoy it.

John grins back at his plate and not even the large bite of toast he takes can dampen his poorly concealed grin.


End file.
